


Bad Habit (Protect Me From What I Want)

by choirofangels



Category: My Chemical Romance
Genre: F/M, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-03-19
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:30:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1337128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/choirofangels/pseuds/choirofangels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Addiction is different for everyone. This is just one story.</p><p>(TRIGGER WARNING FOR SELF-HARM. Be good to yourself. If this is the kind of thing that might bother you, scroll on by.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Habit (Protect Me From What I Want)

**Author's Note:**

> **THE BIGGEST TRIGGER WARNING FOR SELF-HARM, GUYS. I'M SERIOUS.** (Cutting, hair-pulling, biting, urges.) Be good to yourselves, _please_. Also minor trigger warning for mental illness (anxiety/depression). 
> 
> Explicit rating for graphic detail, no sex.
> 
>  
> 
> _You can only blame your problems on the world for so long, before it all becomes the same old song._

It's been two months, four days and about six hours since he'd finally promised to get clean, for Frank. It's nothing like the slow burn of smoke in your lungs, one helpless addiction over another, nothing like being wasted to take the edge off of everything. It's pure and fucking perfect and he misses it _so bad_.

In the months, hell, years before Gerard had met Frank, before Frank had transferred to Belleville High, he'd been alone, save for Mikey. Sharing a room with his kid brother had made the angry red marks hard to hide, no matter how much he wanted to keep them a secret. For the most part, he'd been good at it, always making sure his shirt sleeves were long enough and never leaving the basement in summer when it was just this side of too hot to wear a hoodie.

The first time Mikey had seen them, on his shoulder, Gerard had come out of the shower and forgotten they were there, days old, a momentary lapse of judgement. Mikey had looked up from whatever he was doing and gasped, choking out a quiet 'what the Hell, Gee?'

'It's nothing,' Gerard had muttered definitively, hastily pulling the towel up over his shoulders before grabbing a t-shirt and sweatpants, going back into the bathroom to change.

Mikey hadn't mentioned it again, but he hadn't looked at Gerard in the same way, either. His sure looks had become questioning, worried. They were only a semblance of normal after months and months of astutely not talking about it, but never the same. Gerard hadn't known Mikey was being bullied, hadn't known that all the friends he'd trusted had turned out to be assholes. He hadn't told Gerard how lonely he was all the time, how much he'd been hurt by Gerard turning in on himself instead of talking. 

Seeing the tell-tale marks on Mikey's side as he shifted in his sleep one hot summer night was the first time Gerard made a conscious effort to stop, to quit making himself a punching bag for his pocket knife. He hated himself even more, didn't sleep, couldn't believe he'd been the one to teach Mikey that this is the way to deal with feeling shitty. He was the worst big brother the poor kid could have possibly been cursed to have. 

Mikey was transferred after that. He opened up to their mom about what a shit time he was having, the bullies had been relentless and, through some interesting accounting and his mom's second job, he was moved to the local private school. He'd met Pete there, and Gabe, and even though Gerard and Mikey drifted apart a little bit, he was happy and that's all that mattered.

As an apology to his little brother, Gerard lasted three months, twelve days and two hours.

When he'd met Frank the New Kid, Gerard had been infatuated, at first. He'd liked the guy, inexplicably drawn towards him, all punk hair and fake lip ring. The dance to dating had been nice, soft, warm, the kind of happiness Gerard hadn't felt in such a long time. Then Frankie'd actually _kissed him_ and Gerard was in over his head, determined to do whatever it took to keep him. Frank was good. Frank made him happy. _Nothing_ good made Gerard happy. He had to keep him. He _had to_.

The ensuing months had been blissful, kissing and fondling after school and on weekends when Frank's mom was out with friends or at church or whatever. Blissful fucking ignorance, perhaps. Gerard liked to pretend he was someone else when he was with Frank, a functioning human being capable of dealing with existence, momentarily forgetting that Frank would have something to say about his secret if he found out, something to say about the skin deep destruction Gerard had inflicted all over his body.

By now the tops of his arms, shoulders and thighs were battlegrounds. Old scars white, newer ones pink. He stopped for a little while, not even from trying, just because Frank didn't so much take the edge off life as soften it, make it easier for Gerard to deal with. Until one week in mid-November, Gerard's mom yelled at him about his grades; Gerard's mom _never_ yells at him about anything. She'd been stressed at work but he didn't know that, an oversight he excused in a heartbeat as he let himself go, hot press of the knife in one of the rare empty spaces of skin. It's like walking into pure, untouched snow, the satisfaction of making your mark in something beautiful.

The first time Frank saw his scars, both old and fresh, Gerard had been blessed with a stunned silence in the seconds before he'd started screaming at him. He'd begged Frank to believe him, with tears in his eyes, when he promised that he didn't want to die, trying to explain that it just _helped_. It was the first time he'd seen Frank look hurt and it was _all his fault_. He'd asked Gerard why he hadn't just called to talk about it, why taking a knife to his fucking skin was the first thing he did instead of opening up about how he felt? Gerard felt broken and alone, he'd never considered opening up to anyone about this. It's why he hid it, loathe to think people would assume he's doing it for attention. He didn't _want_ the attention, he hadn't wanted anyone to know, not even Frank.

There he was, alone in his room after Frank had left, feeling terrible. Truly, awfully terrible, knowing he'd done something wrong _again_. The irony of his stupid thoughts hadn't escaped him, telling him that hurting himself would make this better when in reality it was the one thing that would make this _worse_. He wanted to stay true to his word, to never see that look on Frank's face ever again. Still, his skin thrummed with anticipation, cravings kicked up a few notches.

~*~

It's been a bad day. A bad, bad, cruel fucking day, like the universe has decided he's due to be punished for something he doesn't know he's done. Even worse, Frank had snapped at him earlier for bailing on their trip to the mall that weekend, to check out the new skate shop, because he isn't good with crowds. He knows Frank's just frustrated, annoyed because Gerard is more useless than everyone else and can't handle these things, but it doesn't make it any fucking better. Frank had run for the bus before they'd been able to sort their shit out. 

The itch starts on the walk home, pocket knife heavy in his jeans. By the time he gets there, the _need_ deep inside of him is a throbbing ache. He throws himself onto his bed, head in his hands, shaking. 

This is too much. Too fucking much.

His hair's in complete disarray from where he's been raking his hands through it, pulling like it's going to help. His mind is jumping between telling him he's a horrible, horrible fucking person, that he's failed some test he didn't know he was supposed to be taking and how he _needs_ this. He deserves that sharp, stinging pain that always, _always_ brings him back to earth. He can't let it go.

His skin thrums with the memory, veins fizzy, wanting. He'd fucked something up in his brain a long time ago, making connections between being in pain, seeing blood and being o-fucking-kay. Gerard's scars mark his history. The first few times were just scratches, superficial and shallow, barely even leaving a trace. As he slipped further and further, swung through loneliness, self-hatred and despair, more and more fucked up than ever, the scars grew deeper, wider, uglier. It didn't matter much.

Hurting himself makes him dizzy with relief, so much he laughs sometimes, unnatural marks all over his body a small price to pay. When the cravings kick in, the pain is better than a kiss, better than an orgasm. Nothing else makes him happy anymore, brain misfiring and lying to him. It's better than jacking off, better than anything, better than Frank. If Frank loves him, really loves him, he'd let Gerard do this. He wouldn't get so mad, wouldn't have that hurt expression etched into his face when he yells at Gerard that he needs to fucking stop before he goes too far.

Right now, he misses the pull of his skin splitting, the way his flesh goes white before the blood seeps through, like his skin is shocked and doesn't know what to do with itself before it remembers to fucking bleed the way it's supposed to. He misses the wave of relief, taking care of himself after, the dull tell-tale ache lingering for days. He can't remember how many shirts he's ruined from his skin splitting open while he's in class, fragile scabs tearing with his reckless movements. He won't be fucking gentle with himself just because he's wounded, why the fuck would he?

His phone buzzes. It's Frank.

'Hey, Gee,' the voice on the other end of the line cracks.

'Hi,' Gerard manages to choke out, voice hoarse.

There's silence on the other end of the phone, it's heavy and uncomfortable and Gerard's bracing himself for the question.

'Did you?' Frank asks, voice fierce.

'No,' he answers, truthful but defensive. 

There'd be no point in lying if he had; Frank would know as soon as they started fooling around and Gerard asks if he can keep his shirt on, or maybe they should just get off against each other. They've been down this road before.

'Good.' Frank snaps, even though he's clearly relieved. 'M'proud of you,' he softens, praising Gerard even though it does nothing to soothe the itch. So fucking what if Frank is proud of him, who gives a fuck? It doesn't make this go away.

'It's worse like this,' Gerard admits. 'I keep telling myself, y'know, the ache to want to? It's worse. I deserve to fucking be like this, I don't deserve to feel better.'

Frank doesn't say anything for the longest time. Gerard's helplessly wondering if he's still there when he asks 'do you need me to come over?'

He considers for a moment. Sometimes he wants to be left alone, sometimes he wants a welcome distraction. This isn't another test from Frank, this is an offer of help.

'Yeah,' Gerard relents, sighing.

'I'll be there in twenty,' he promises, hanging up the phone.

It's a comfort, but not much of one. Twenty minutes is a long time when there's countless things around him he could hurt himself with. A knife is best, sweet, stinging pain that burns or bites or punching walls can never beat, but if desperation kicks in, he's not fussy.

He dwells on the time before he'd met Frank, when he used to be free to do whatever the fucking fuck he wanted to do. Sometimes, if he'd had a bad class, he'd go into the toilets after school, lock himself in and do it _right there_ , using the toilet paper to clean himself up, flushing away his dirty little secret when the bleeding stopped. 

Then Frank had come along and fucking ruined _everything_. Gerard wonders whether Frank cares about him at all, whether he wants Gerard to be happy, or whether he wants Gerard to stop because it's just something you're not supposed to do. Blind rage kicks up in him, bubbles rising to the surface in angry frustration. How _dare he_ , how _dare_ Frank try and use emotional fucking manipulation to control him? Gerard makes a point of never listening to _anyone_.

It's twisted as fuck, a poetic, dark romance, but he's always seen self-harm as his scarlet woman, a secret love affair, a beautiful, wonderful feeling to run to when you want to feel better. When he was alone, really fucking lonely, he fantasised she was human, about meeting her, about kissing her, telling her she was his first love and he'd never, ever leave her.

Even Frank doesn't know that.

He bites his arm, hard enough to leave a mark, muscles in his jaw tense, clamped, pain blossoming across his skin, gasping and panting when he forces himself to let go. There's no blood. He thinks, with a sick twist in his stomach, that at least Frank will be pleased. It takes the edge off, but not by much.

It's worse by the time Frank gets there, taking the steps down to the basement two at a time. The first thing he does is wipe Gerard's face, hand coming away wet. He didn't even know he'd been crying.

'I've tried everything,' Gerard croaks, voice hoarse and wrecked. 'Nothing makes this go away, Frankie. I don't know how.'

Frank had printed off a list of Things That Are Supposed To Help and so far none of them had worked. Gerard had even tried a couple of them combined and nope. He's never felt so lost or hopeless in his life. His scarlet woman has him; he will always be hers, no matter how much he tries to leave her.

He's tried elastic bands around his wrist but they weren't painful enough. He's tried running his hands under freezing cold and burning hot water; it helped a little but it wasn't the right kind of pain, his urges coming back stronger for him to fucking _finish the job_ so he could feel that surge of pleasure up the back of his spine. He'd even tried running, but the urges didn't go anywhere, coupled with his own voice in his stupid head telling him he's chubby and looks ridiculous and he's wasting his fucking time and, oh yeah, he's going to keel over and die right there on the sidewalk.

'Did you try the butterfly method I told you about?' Frank asks gently, rubbing Gerard's back. Gerard snorts in derision, sucking a couple of stray tears into his mouth. 'Don't give a fuck about some fucking fake butterfly, Frankie. Sorry. I'd kill a real butterfly to be able to, I swear.'

The words feel cruel and horrible, alien and strange out of Gerard's mouth. He isn't lying, though. Sometimes, the truth hurts.

'It's okay, baby,' Frank placates, holding him close as Gerard coughs out a fresh wave of sobs into his shoulder. 'I'm right here with you.'

'Yeah,' he sighs, without genuine feeling. 'I know.'

~*~

A month before they're due to graduate, Frank sneaks out and books it round to Gerard's at two in the morning, crawling in through the basement window. Neither of them sleep all night, Gerard rocking in Frank's arms. Elena's death has finally hit him, Frank had thought he was taking it too well, and it's put almost nothing into perspective for him except how much he hates himself for every single time he brushed off hanging out with her to barricade himself in the bathroom and run slices through his skin. She'll never know the reason Gerard spent time away from her, will have gone to her grave thinking he just didn't want to. He's never hated himself more in his entire life.

All Frank can do is hold him and whisper promises about how she didn't think any less of him, how she loved him unconditionally, both as a Grandma and as a friend.

At five thirty in the morning, Gerard is kissing Frank goodbye and ushering him silently out of the front door so he can sneak home without being noticed.

The last thing Frank whispers to him is 'think about it, Gee. She'd never want you hurt.'

Gerard bites his lip and nods, internally debating the moral implications of using his Grandma's death as a drive to stop hurting himself as he watches Frank leave. 

Turning to go back to the basement, he catches Mikey standing at the top of the stairs. His eyes betray his own lack of sleep and they stare at one another. Gerard holds his breath, doesn't know how much Mikey heard. Uncharacteristically, Mikey's the one to break the heavy silence between them.

'Frank comes round at weird times,' he states. There's a question in there somewhere, but Gerard isn't going to answer.

'Yeah,' he agrees quietly.

'He's good for you, Gee. You should listen to him,' Mikey advises, but he sounds fucking piteous and the need for relief is still crawling up inside of Gerard so much he wants to chew his own fucking face off. He nods absently before turning away.

Instead, though, because he promised, he goes to the kitchen, makes some coffee and goes outside, sitting on the damp, dew-soaked grass, smoking all the cigarettes he can find.

~*~

Gerard can't remember how long it's been. He tries to work it out one day, guessing at a year, maybe two. He's been on the road to recovery almost as long as he can remember.

It's been five years since he and Frank had broken up. Gerard had moved to New York at first, after graduation, leaving Frank behind in Jersey. It'd been difficult, the shift to a long-distance relationship is never easy for anyone. Even though they weren't very far away from one another, life has a knack of making Gerard constantly fucking busy. Sometimes being with Frank felt as much like a chore as it did something to enjoy. So, a couple of years later, when work had requested Gerard transfer to their HQ in California, he'd brought it up with Frank over an online video call, a small part of him knowing it'd be the last nail in the coffin for them.

Gerard didn't lie about wanting to go, it was such a great opportunity, but his voice was quiet and small when he told Frank, because he knew what it meant. Frank loved Gerard, but he wouldn't leave Jersey for anything, not even him. So Gerard had no choice but to accept that and, for once in his sorry, miserable life, he held onto something good and put himself first. 

It was the worst day of his life, watching Frank's tear-stained, pixellated face on the screen, begging him to stay in New York. All Gerard could do was bite his lip and shake his head, throwing around promises that they'd be friends in time, that Frank would never lose Gerard that way.

So he moved to California, for years only hooking up with people who didn't stick around long enough to ask about his scars. It suited him well enough, and when life chipped away at his resolve now and then, he resorted to going back to his tried-and-true method of dealing. Frank wasn't around anymore to yell, to look hurt, to make Gerard feel guilty. Except, now, the cuts didn't have the same bite; he tried all over his body, desperate. They were deep enough to scar, but the relief didn't come. Frustrated, he punched a wall, wondering _why_. Maybe his brain had rewired itself back to healthy. Maybe his scarlet woman was angry with him for leaving her, smoke in his mind forming her the way she'd always been to him, always there to make him feel better. Not anymore. She turned her back to him the same way he had.

He'd met Lindsey at an art show downtown, talking with her well into the night about all sorts of things. She has scars of her own, hidden by tattoos she's designed herself, content enough to have them on show. Gerard's not so nervous about showing her as he was with the quick hook-ups, though it still makes him anxious enough that he doesn't take his shirt off for the first three months of their relationship. When he does, she doesn't even look at his scars, like they're not there, kissing his skin indiscriminately. She tells him he's the most beautiful thing she's ever seen.

~*~

It's been a long time. That's all he knows. Somewhere along the way, he'd stopped counting.

They're out shopping one day when a woman walks past with the cutest baby girl. Gerard looks over dreamily, catching Lindsey's eye. They grin at each other, a knowing smile, murmurs of having one of their own one day passed quietly between them. He stops pushing the cart halfway down the kitchen aisle, Lindsey indulging him enough when he spends a little too long looking at the high-quality kitchen knives, something deep inside of him still twisting with want. They're inexplicably beautiful, powerful. It's almost sexual, bordering on perverse, stark contrast to saccharine smiles about children and a perfect future grounding him back to earth. He's considered knife play before, figures he'd probably love it, except he's scared of it dragging up old demons, forging new associations that'll crumble his defenses.

Days later, the contrast between wanting both things so fucking badly still resonates in Gerard's mind.

Lindsey's sat on the bed, folding clothes or something, he's not really paying attention, as he asks softly 'hey, um, what do you say to a little kid who asks about scars?' She looks up at him, her expression soft; he doesn't need to explain for her to know what he means. How _do_ you explain that to a child? How do you explain something so horrible to someone so small that they won't understand properly? It's like explaining death for the first time; an alien and powerful force a child can't fully comprehend until they're older. He doesn't want to break a kid's heart, doesn't want to teach what he accidentally taught Mikey. He wouldn't wish what he's been through on _anyone_.

She doesn't answer straight away. For a minute, Gerard thinks she's not going to at all, somehow perturbed by the question, or she simply doesn't know.

'I'll tell them I started a fight with something a lot stronger than me,' she answers eventually. 'Like if a tiny baby mouse took on the Hulk and all I could do was run away and keep running.'

He smiles, something inside of him put back together again, crawling up onto their bed, pulling her into his arms and kissing her hair, falling in love all over again.

~*~

Sometimes, when he's stressed, or when Lindsey is overly critical of how he lets Bandit run riot all over the place, or the universe makes Gerard feel shitty about himself, the urges still crawl under his skin, veins fizzy with anticipation, one-track mind wondering where he put his pocket knife. Years ago, if someone had told him he'd have this: a wife, a daughter, a good job and a steady income, he would have laughed in their stupid faces. His residual anxiety and mood fluctuations wind up being irritating enough for him to agree to see a therapist, talking about his urges and how they still bother him sometimes, what they used to mean, what he used to do. The therapist tells him, regretfully, that he'll probably get urges like them all his life, brain somehow permanently malfunctioning because he was so young when he started to use self-injury as a method of coping, but recovery comes with fighting those urges and he's doing well. 

Every single time they rise up, thrusting him back into his teenage skin yelling at him to _hurt bleed right now_ , he clenches his jaw and focuses on helping himself rather than giving in. They pass more easily with time, even if – in the moment – he doesn't think they will. Hot showers help him most, the last of the cravings ebbing out of his skin, watching the water swirl down the drain, tinged pink from red shower gel, not orange from blood.

In the house one day, when Lindsey's taken Bandit to singing lessons, he stares into the full length mirror and looks at the clusters of scarred lines, protruding snow white and faded with time on his pale skin. He wonders if he can really relate to the boy who'd made these anymore. A part of him always will, he guesses. Though another part just the same will always love Frank for pulling him out, even though he hadn't wanted to go, even though he'd resented Frank asking it of him, resented wanting to make Frank happy with every single day.

Gerard absently realises they haven't spoken in months. Frank's smallest is probably four, now, maybe five. The twins are a little older, but they're all adorable and brilliant, just like he always knew Frank's kids would be. Just like Bandit.

He smiles at himself in the mirror. Frank's praises molded into his own over the years, his own voice in his head telling him he's proud of himself for how far he's come. He swallows the small, residual bubble of anxiety he gets whenever he knows he's going to talk to Frank again, lights up a smoke and picks up his phone, selecting his number before hitting the call button.

'Hey Frankie, how are you?' Gerard's grin splits across his face when he hears Frank's voice, just like it always has.

Once you're addicted to something, it sticks with you for the rest of your life. Smoking, drinking, self-harming, drugs, sex or fucking scratch cards. It doesn't matter. It's what you do with that addiction that makes you who you are. Even if the people around you pick you up, you take the first step. Even if they hold your hand all the way, you're the one walking. You're the tiny baby mouse up against the Hulk, but you can beat it, you can stay alive. Keep fighting. Keep running.

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the most painfully honest thing I've ever written and I'm kind of nervous about posting it but, since you're reading this, I figure I grew some balls and posted it anyway.
> 
> If you were affected by this, I don't know how much I can stress that things _do_ get better. Don't let some stupid story by some stupid kid get to you. Seriously, guys, be safe. You're worth the world, even if you feel like you're not. ♥


End file.
